


Bemused Eye-Fuck

by incapricious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incapricious/pseuds/incapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sherlock were still keeping up with his notebooks (if he knew where they were), he would need to add an entirely new set of Venn diagrams to account for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bemused Eye-Fuck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaalee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaalee/gifts).



> Inspired by kaalee's love of John Watson's faaaaaace and the way he uses it to communicate his love for Sherlock. She totally coined the "bemused eye-fuck" term, not Sherlock.

No one has ever looked at Sherlock the way John looks at Sherlock.

Sherlock knows this because he keeps track, or at least he used to. (After so many years, the likelihood of a shift in the percentages by any statistically significant margin is vanishingly small. Nowadays he only pays attention if he observes a run of unusual reactions. Generally, this signifies either that someone has played a prank on him [Anderson is fond of the classic "Kick Me" sign -- not that Sherlock lets Anderson approach him from behind, but one time there was a most unusual pattern of blood spattered on the carpet and Sherlock was so focused he didn't feel the light touch of sellotape being adhered to his coat], or that he has inadvertently interrupted a crime in progress, and the perpetrators are trying to act naturally so as to not arouse his suspicions, which generally leads to them smiling at least sixty percent more than normal, which has the opposite effect of what they intended.)

If he were to dig out the notebooks from his university days (which he wouldn't, because he incorporated the contents of them into his model of human behaviour years ago) (and also, he has no idea where they are) he would find the data to back up his knowledge that, statistically speaking, the most common looks he gets from people with whom he has more than a passing interaction (i.e. exceeding thirty seconds of conversation) are:

1\. Fearful (often poorly concealed) (his father was afraid of him, he realised when he was seven years old)  
2\. Contemptuous mixed with envious (classmates he refused to help; Anderson, Donovan, most of the police)  
3\. Simultaneously irritated and pleased (classmates he explained things to; nearly half his clients; Lestrade)

The complete list of catalogued reactions is quite long, spanning thirteen pages of densely written script. The diagrams analysing the patterns of reactions of those with whom he had recurring interactions (whether by choice or not) take up forty-two additional pages.

John is, quite simply, an anomaly.

There are those other than John, of course, who are amazed at Sherlock's powers of observation and deduction. There are others who are frustrated by his leaps of logic that move too quickly for them to follow. And there are others still (though not many) who gaze at Sherlock fondly, even if they only do it when they think Sherlock isn't looking (Mycroft is not as inscrutable as he likes to think).

There are no others, though, and have been no others in the entirety of Sherlock's life (his memories of infancy are frustratingly full of holes, but he is fairly confident that any deductions he made before he could speak were kept to himself and therefore not a cause of consternation to his mother), who do all three -- sometimes in the span of a single minute.

If Sherlock were still keeping up with his notebooks (if he knew where they were), he would need to add an entirely new set of Venn diagrams to account for John.

It's astonishing.

What's more astonishing is that sometimes John looks at Sherlock in a completely new way altogether. It's an expression not adequately described by anything in the thirteen pages he compiled after years of observation. Sherlock is at a loss to label it: it's as if John is trying to bore into Sherlock's soul with his eyes, with the goal of both understanding Sherlock better and communicating how ridiculous and amazing he finds Sherlock to be.

(Of course, Sherlock doesn't believe in the concept of a soul, which makes his lack of scientifically valid description all the more frustrating.)

It's not until a late-night foray through one of the newer social media websites that Sherlock finds the right word. It's a simple matter of adding an adjective to complete the phrase.

\---

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock looks up. John is standing in Sherlock's bedroom, in the doorway, arms crossed in front of him. Sherlock looks down. He is sitting on the floor in his dressing gown, surrounded by books and boxes (four empty, six unopened, one partially empty). In his hand is a well-worn copy of _The Laws of Form_ , open to page eighteen.

"I was just... looking for something."

"Something in that book?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock says, dropping it. "An old notebook."

"...Why?"

"I need to make an addendum."

"At three in the morning?"

(The window is dark, save for the soft glow of streetlamps. John's eyelids are puffy and there is a line down the left side of his face, as though he has been sleeping on the sleeve of his pyjamas or a wrinkled pillowcase. It is probably closer to half-past two in the morning. John is being imprecise to emphasize his annoyance.)

"I woke you," Sherlock says. He begins rifling through the open box in front of him. Textbook. Textbook. Mystery novel (gift from Mycroft; never finished; obvious). Sheet music (Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major, Opus 35).

"You were dumping books onto the floor. Loudly."

"Hard to see what's beneath them otherwise."

John says nothing. Sherlock doesn't need to look up to know John is pressing his lips together in irritation, deciding what -- if anything -- to say next.

Vegetarian cookbook (where had that come from?). Merck Index (10th edition). Yellowed newspapers. No.

Sherlock pushes the now-empty box away, then gets to his knees and drags another towards him. "Aha!" he says as soon as he opens it. On the top is a notebook bound in deep red leather. "Not the right one, but closer. Must be in here."

In his peripheral vision, he sees John approach and kneel down. "What is that?"

"One of my notebooks, from when I was at university."

"You mean course notes?"

Sherlock looks at John, confused by the question. "No. Why would I keep course notes? That would be useless. These are _my_ notes, from my own observations. Theories, hypotheses, data."

"Oh. May I?" John asks, his face open and curious, his annoyance gone in an instant, pushed away by -- what? His desire to understand Sherlock? He extends his hand tentatively, and Sherlock feels a sudden, intense surge of happiness. John wants to read his theories.

"Help yourself," he says, feeling his face pull into an involuntary smile. John picks up the notebook and sits down, sighing.

Sherlock has to pull out five more notebooks (lighter red, blue, green, black, brown) before he finds the right one. He flips to the thirteenth page; there is still space for the new entry at the bottom. "Do you have a pencil?" he asks, finger caressing the blank spot.

John makes a little sound, sort of a cross between a laugh and a moan, and Sherlock's head snaps up. John is giving him _that_ look. The until-recently-unnamed look.

"Quickly, John, I have to write this down."

"So... let me get this straight. You came up here. At three in the morning--"

"Half-two," Sherlock says. He can't let the imprecision slide twice.

"-- at three in the morning," John repeats, "to write something in an old notebook, and you _didn't bring anything to write with_?"

"Bemused eye-fuck."

John blinks. "... Sorry?"

"That's what I need to record, to add to my list. It's the name I came up with for the way you were looking at me just now."

John stands up. "I'm going to go get you a pencil."

Sherlock spends the two minutes of John's absence thinking about the way John's face looked as he left the room. By the time John returns, Sherlock has made his decision.

After he's recorded "bemused eye-fuck" at the end of the page thirteen, he flips back five pages, just to verify he remembers correctly. (He does. Of course.) "One-hundred forty-two," he tells John, closing the notebook and handing it to him.

"What?"

"The number of the look you got when I said 'fuck'. And there it is again."

John opens the notebook, leafing slowly through it, his shoulders taking on what Sherlock considers to be John's battle posture -- drawn back, tensed, ready to face whatever comes at him. He pauses, reads down the page, and closes the notebook.

"That sounds about right. Does that bother you?"

"Three-hundred twelve."

John shakes his head and opens the book. When he finds the right page this time, he blushes, the colour spreading from his hairline all the way down to his throat. "That's... a little excessive. I mean, I'm not really--"

"No, John. That's the look I'd be giving you, if I weren't capable of concealing it."

"Oh, I see." John drops the notebook back into the box, pushes the box to one side with his foot, and drops to his knees in front of Sherlock. "I'm going to kiss you now," he says. "And after that, I'm going to fuck you. Hard."

John's face fills Sherlock's field of vision. "Another uncategorized look," Sherlock mutters just before John's lips meet his. "After we're done, I'm going to need that pencil again."


End file.
